Being Sam
by wigginluvr
Summary: Collection of one-shots revolving around Sam's life after his dad left.  Includes some pranks, some tears, some lonely evenings with Marv, and maybe even some first loves... Discontinued.
1. Just a Plaque

**I, my friends, do not own Tron. But it's very nice of you to think I might.**

Just a Plaque

My dad got a plaque. No gravestone, no memorial service, no eulogy. Just a plaque.

They told me that he wasn't dead, might be coming back. They couldn't have a funeral, couldn't give more than a plaque to someone who wasn't dead – it just wasn't right. I fought, told them that I knew there was nothing other than death that could keep him from coming home.

But I was a naïve kid back then.

It was in ENCOM's atrium, on the wall behind the reception desk, about seven, maybe eight feet up. It was rectangular, twenty-four inches by thirty-three, with a bronze finish. The plaque itself was some sort of knock-off tin alloy; nothing but the best for the founder, eh? It had a mahogany backboard that got cleaned every third Tuesday at eight twenty-five by the nighttime security guard Kurt, who liked to use a strawberry-scented polish because it smelled like his ex-wife. There was a three inch scrape just below the _I _in his name, from when Kurt accidentally scratched his wrist watch across it, and there was a ding on the bottom right corner that had been there since the time five Januarys ago, when some clumsy painters had knocked it down while trying to remove it. _Kevin Flynn, _it read. _Beloved Founder and CEO, ENCOM, 1989._

I could tell you all of that from memory. What I couldn't tell you was why the hell I hated the damn thing so much.

But I did. I hated it.

I was seventeen. It was during my last couple of months staying with Alan and his wife, and, quite frankly, I was restless. I wanted to get out of there, get out of the place that _every day _reminded me of my dad, but I couldn't - not until I was eighteen. So, since I couldn't get out for good yet, I had to settle for a temporary freedom.

I stole my dad's old bike from Alan's garage.

"Hey, baby," I crouched next to the Ducati, ghosting my fingers over the white stenciled letters. "Did you miss me?" It had only been a few days, but God, I loved that bike. It was ironic how the only time I could forget about my dad was while I was on his motorcycle.

I straightened and tugged the canvas tarp off the rest of the bike, letting it fall in a noisy heap to the concrete floor. The garage door rattled loudly as I rolled it up, but I didn't really mind – Alan knew I snuck out and he didn't care. Either that or he'd given up trying to do anything about it.

I forced my helmet on over my sleep-tousled hair, swung one leg over the seat of the bike, stomping on the ignition, and coasted out of the short driveway.

The world always looked different through the plastic visor on my helmet; better, I thought. The colours were duller, outside noises muffled. It was amazing – when I was on that bike it seemed like I was the only person in the world.

I tore down our empty street, the old Ducati roaring, the toes of my sneakers skimming the speeding asphalt. The neighborhood was silent, most of our neighbors still sleeping soundly.

It was nearly two in the morning, but there was still heavy traffic on the expressway. I held a straight line down the highway in between the two left lanes, shrugging my shoulders as if that would somehow allow me to squeeze through tighter spaces.

I didn't really know where I was going until I got there.

The ENCOM tower loomed above me, dark except for dim lights in a few offices up near the fourteenth floor and in the atrium itself.

I tugged off my helmet and sat for a few minutes, one of my feet on the curb to hold myself and the bike upright. Then I smiled to myself, laughed once, and popped the kick stand on the Ducati.

The dumpster round back was usually empty by four in the morning. Lucky for me it was only quarter to three. I threw the lid open, wrinkling my nose at the sour smell, and peered over the rim.

"Bingo," I leaned my head a bit away from the dumpster while reaching in, and extracted an empty… a _partially _empty, slightly soggy pizza box. I set it down on the sidewalk so that I could take off my watch, which was hi-tech, shiny, and expensive – not something a pizza boy would wear – and shove it in my jeans' pocket.

Hair adequately disgruntled, sweatshirt smeared with some spare pizza grease from in the box, my helmet tucked under one arm, pizza box balanced precariously on the other, I swaggered back around the building.

A young-looking security guard was dozing behind the reception desk, his arms folded under his head. I vaguely recognized him as Kurt's replacement, but I bet that he wouldn't recognize me. I sauntered up to the door, trying to look like a greasy pizza delivery guy for my own benefit, and starting pounding on the glass.

"Hey!" I shouted for emphasis. "Open up!"

The newbie jerked awake, slurping a string of drool back into his mouth. He looked around frantically for a few moments before locating me outside the doors, then relaxed considerably.

"It's after hours," he shouted back to me.

I sighed theatrically, and held up the pizza box for him to see, hoping that it hadn't been his. "Someone ordered pizza in this building, buddy. He said he was on the fourteenth floor, office number…" I thought back to the glimpse I had gotten coming in, compiling it with what I knew of the tower's layout, "…148 B."

He stared at me vacantly.

"Look," I said. "This is my last delivery of the night. Just let me bring him the damn pizza."

Newbie rolled his eyes in surrender, and then pressed a button behind the front desk, unlocking the doors. I opened them and strode into the room, still looking very agitated and very tired.

And just to make me more agitated, there was that plaque, hanging behind the front desk. I glared at that plaque long and hard, just to make sure it remembered that I hated it, even though it was just a plaque.

Tonight, I was finally going to do something about that.

"Just go up and deliver it," said Newbie. "Come straight back down, though. If I hear you've been snooping you'll be in jail faster than you can start making up excuses for your sorry self."

"Sheesh," I said, hurrying for the elevator. "Okay, okay. I'm going."

ENCOM had boring elevator music.

I got off on the fifth floor, wanting to be as close to the atrium as I could without being obvious. I left the pizza box in a trash can that I found conveniently left outside the elevator, abandoned by some custodian, and strode off down the hall, stopping in front of office 53 A. I made short work of its lock with a paperclip that I found in my sweatshirt pocket, and pushed the door in, following after it and closing it behind me.

53 A was dark, but there was still a soft green glow coming from the sleeping computer terminal, so it was easy to find the light switch. I flicked it on, and then went to the phone, and dialed the front desk.

Newbie answered. "Mr. DiNubile?" he asked. "I thought you'd left already."

"Well," I said, in my best middle-aged man voice. "Apparently not."

"Oh."

"Yeah, oh. I saw some sketchy kid snooping around my floor. Did you let him up?"

Newbie fumbled the phone. "Ah… N-n-no, sir. No. I'll come up and take a look."

"You'd better, son." I hung up the phone and padded out of the office, leaving the light on and locking the door again behind me.

I took the other elevator back down, passing by Newbie in the shaft, and reentered the atrium, glowering at that damn plaque.

I knew the one thing that ENCOM really took pride in was its power, its wealth. When my dad had been CEO they actually cared about the programs they designed, but not now, _no _sir. I rounded the counter, rifled through the drawers a little until I found promising-looking extra-thick Sharpie and a nice letter-opener, tugged the desk chair around, and climbed up it until I was almost at eye-level with the plaque.

Then, smiling wolfishly to myself, I set to work.

My brilliance was adorning the front page of the New York Times the next morning.

I had figured it would be – there was no way ENCOM could get a painting crew and a new plaque in before the word got out to the press. I read it simultaneously with Alan, from my own paper, which I had taken time to steal from our neighbor's front porch, smiling at Alan's terribly shocked expression and open-mouthed stare.

There was a picture of it, see. And it was wonderful.

I'd scraped the bronze finish from it, leaving all but the edges an ugly metallic colour. And, making good use of the Sharpie, I'd left my friends at ENCOM a nice note, right on their immaculate white wall.

_He deserves more than a cheap, fake bronze plaque, you asses. _

And I'd signed it.

_Love,_

_Sam Flynn_

Alan got mad, of course. But I was happier than I'd been in a while – I'd managed to have my freedom, piss off ENCOM, _and _start a soon-to-be yearly tradition all in one night.

**So, did you love it? Hate it?**

**Please, tell me :)**


	2. Lessons

**Thanks to everyone who reviewed/subscribed/favorited :)**

**This one's a bit shorter, but I had some trouble thinking of what to write about…**

Lessons

My first attempt at parachuting was bad.

I guess that's really all that can be expected when the only instruction you've ever had is from an internet page with a half-ass diagram and some survivor's tips, but I still hadn't expected for it to go _that _badly.

It had been tough to get the chute. I'd stopped by an extreme sporting goods store a few days ago, swaggered up to the counter and asked them where they kept their parachutes. The bald, tattooed man at the register looked like he was seriously doubting my sanity, but showed me where the chutes were all the same, after examining my ID for at least fifteen minutes. He'd asked if I needed lessons.

I told him I didn't.

"Okay."

I rolled my shoulders, stretched my neck from side to side.

"Okay. Come on, buddy. You can do this."

I threw my weight from foot to foot and tugged on the shoulder straps of my parachute one last time, more to have something to do with my hands than the make sure they were secure. My heart was pounding in my chest, the amount of air my lungs held suddenly seemed insufficient.

"Alright, Sammy. Just a little jump," I laughed nervously.

It was humid in the abandoned construction yard, even in late September. My navy tee shirt was sticking to my chest with sweat, same as my hair to my forehead. The tower crane that I had climbed to the top of was swaying sickeningly in the gentle breeze, making it tough to keep my footing on the rusty metal.

Good thing I had a parachute.

It looked to me like 150, maybe 200 feet to the ground, but that was a rough estimate, at best. I was getting a serious case of vertigo, which, mixed with some nasty tunnel vision, was making me think twice about this plan.

"Just a little jump," I muttered sarcastically to myself. "What the hell was I thinking?"

I started to back up, sliding my sneakers carefully along the left side of the frame, just as a particularly violent breeze jerked the crane to the right.

I tumbled off the side of the crane, upside down, screaming.

Air whistled past me, up into my shirt, pulling it up over my head. I couldn't see a thing, but I knew the ground was _right there, _I _knew _it. I scrabbled at my chest desperately, fingers tearing at the thin fabric of my tee until they closed around the thick deployment drawstring.

I managed to pull the chute with about ten feet left until imminent death by painful pancaking, but I still hit the ground pretty damn hard. And, Jesus, it hurt.

I groaned loudly.

Once my head stopped spinning I somehow managed to realize that I was under the parachute, that it seemed like all of my limbs worked well enough, and that at least two ribs were broken.

After about ten minutes, I pushed myself to my hands and knees, discovering in the process that my right arm was either fractured or sprained – it hurt like hell; another ten minutes after that I managed a sort of crouching stand. It seemed like half an hour before I stumbled out from under the heavy parachute, dragging my feet, kicking up a fair amount of dust.

Panting, I pulled the chute pack straps off my shoulders, letting the pack fall to the ground. I'd get it later – no one was going to be stopping by anytime soon.

The Ducati was parked in the shadow of one of the run down warehouses, her polished body sparkling in the noontime sun. It was a short ride back along the harbor to my shipping-container-turned-apartment, during which I wobbled like a two year old on a tricycle, trying to ride with only one arm.

Marv looked at me curiously when I all but fell onto our couch, but I ignored him, waving him off with my good hand. "Just get the first-aid-kit, Marv," I told him.

He yipped.

"Don't ask questions, just get the damn kit."

I know I sounded insane, talking to my dog, but I was still pretty out of it, so I didn't really care. Marv gave me a look that suggested he was not at all impressed by my ordering him around, but jogged off to go find the first-aid-kit.

After a little patch up, an overdose of Advil, and about three bottles of Coors, I was feeling a little less dead.

I looked at Marv, who was standing on my stomach. "What do you think, bud?" I slurred. "Do I need lessons?"

He yipped.

I laughed. "Yeah, I think so, too."

**IMPORTANT: So, readers, I need your opinions on something:**

**Should Sammy get a girlfriend?**

**I mean, I think it would be fun to do, but I'm not gonna write it if you're not gonna read it. **

**So answer my question, and leave your opinion on this chapter :)**

**Please?**


	3. Because of Him

**I'm gonna go with a "kind of" on the girlfriend thing.**

**This started out as an angsty bit, but it sort of morphed near the middle-ish…**

Because of Him

"Why can't you love me?"

I don't even remember the name of the girl who said it, now. I think it was Emma. Or maybe Sarah. But the point was that we had dated for no more than a week, and for months, _months _after our messy break up, I hadn't been able to get that question, asked more out of frustration than an actual curiosity, out of my head.

It was probably because I didn't have any idea what the hell my answer would've been.

I found myself spending more and more time sitting at home with Marv, staring into space, some sort of food untouched on the table in front of me, going through everything. Every relationship I'd ever had. It wasn't too hard – I'd only ever had a handful. I picked them apart, dissecting them until all that was left were the bones, the barest versions of what the hell had been going on in my head.

I figured a few things out, with Marv's help, of course.

One, that almost every friendship I'd had had ended badly.

And two, that they usually ended for one reason: I couldn't get close to people, because there was always that possibility of losing them.

It _scared_ me.

I couldn't do it.

And, sitting at the bar in a run down pub a few blocks from the shipping harbor, piss drunk, I realized why.

It was because of him.

My dad.

Suddenly I hated him even more, because, damnit, _I wanted to love someone. _I didn't want to be alone any more, but I didn't really have much of a say in the matter. No one wanted to be committed to a guy who couldn't commit back. No one wanted to be friends with a broken heart.

In a wave of anger, I hurled my beer bottle across the room, watching in morbid fascination as it connected with the large, bald, tattooed head of a thick-looking thug in a muscle shirt. I froze, and turned slowly back towards the bartender, as the thug turned to look at me, Budweiser dripping down his face.

Honestly, of all the people that bottle could've hit.

The thug and his cronies stood from their booth and sauntered on over to me, taking their sweet time. The tiny pub had fallen silent now, all eyes glued to our party. I stared defiantly at the thugs as they approached; all the alcohol was doing wonders for my confidence.

"Hey, fellas," I slurred when they reached me. "What's up?"

The big one grunted, hauled back, and punched me in the face. I rolled with the punch, but it still hurt like hell, and I could already feel blood flowing from my nose into my mouth, down my chin. No one stood to intervene, not even the portly bartender.

"Not a talker, then?" I muttered to myself, scrambling off my barstool.

The lead thug came at me again as I stumbled away, dizzy as hell, but some little person darted in between us, holding up her hands to the lead thug's shoulders as if to restrain him.

"Ho, there, mister," she said, with a vaguely Spanish accent. "Let's not fight, okay?" She was wearing some kind of slinky black dress that looked wondrous in the dim light, if a bit blurry in my contorted vision.

Lead Thug glared at her and swung a paw, but she ducked it nimbly, yelping in surprise. I growled drunkenly, and swayed over to give that jerk thug a piece of my mind, because it was one thing to hit me, but it was a completely different thing to hit a girl who had just been trying to help, but the girl collided with my side, and, with a surprisingly strong grip on my bicep, dragged me out onto the street. Lead Thug looked for a second like he wanted to follow us, but he didn't, simply returned to the booth with his friends.

I breathed in the cool night air, looking up in alarm as the girl let go of my arm, only to find that she was a few paces away, sitting on a metal park bench. I tugged my senses about myself enough to sit next to her without actually sitting _on _her.

"You're welcome," she said after a few minutes.

I snorted.

"I'll take that as a 'thank you.'"

We sat in silence for a few more minutes, watching cars cruise by.

"What's your name?" she asked from beside me, looking up. She had pretty eyes, I noticed. They were brown.

"Sam."

"Sam what?"

"Flynn."

She smiled slowly. "Your father was…"

"Yeah, Kevin Flynn," I snapped, looking indifferently away from her, still hot with newfound hatred for the bastard.

She tucked a strand of curly brown hair behind her ear. "He was a bastard," she informed me.

I liked this chick.

"Er…" she said awkwardly. "Didn't mean to offend." She sounded as if offense was exactly what she had hoped to accomplish.

I cracked a lopsided smile. "You didn't, don't worry."

"I wasn't worrying," she retaliated.

I was starting to get ready to leave, but something occurred to me, and I turned back to look at her. "What's your name?"

She smiled slyly, and shrugged, looking away from me into the twilight. "Guess."

"Guess?" I spluttered.

"Mhmm."

"Uh…" I wracked my brain for the most generic name I could think of. "Emily?"

"No," she looked back around at me, the corners of her mouth tugging up in a smirk.

"Taylor?"

"No."

"I know. It's Cleopatra, isn't it?"

She laughed loudly. "Cleopatra? No."

"Victoria?"

"No. It is a _v, _though."

"Valerie?" I asked, happy with myself for getting the _v. _

"No, but close." She stood, smoothing her dress, and offered me her hand. I shook it. "Variel Arguello, at your service."

"Pleasure," I said mockingly, unable to fight a smile.

"I know."

I laughed. "Someone's arrogant," my words were slurred, but I think she got the general idea.

"And someone else is bleeding," she stated. "You'd better get home and patch up." She started to walk off, dress shimmying in the gentle August breeze, leaving me sitting there like a lost puppy.

Because, damnit, I wanted to get up and follow her, but I couldn't. If I did I would probably realize how much I liked her, and we would date for a week, and by Friday she'd be yelling at me because I kept pushing her away. It was always the same. I always pushed them away.

So instead of following her like my gut told me to, I got up and headed home to my cherished Marv and my beloved Ducati in my run down shipping container that I had only ever _liked, _not loved, cursing my dad under my breath.

**Like it? Hate it? Leave a review and tell me what you think?**

**And any ideas for future chapters would be **_**awesome… **_**hint, hint. **


End file.
